


Disintegration

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marriage is nothing but a business contract for those in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disintegration

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by Monarch's Disintegration featuring the lovely Dita Von Teese. I'm not sure how many chapters will be in this, just that I intend to finish it. This will also end up being Johnlock and has no John/Mary love at all, so if you're not into that, go find something you are into. 
> 
> Also, this is the first time I've done something like this genre-wise and also just this calibre of story. I've got everything written scene by scene, but I just have to actually flesh it out now which is not what I normally do. If you have any constructive criticism, I would be forever grateful. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Mary sweeps up the aisle made of satin and steel. Eyes cold, mouth a hard slash of red lipstick. The click of her heels echo in the cavernous cathedral.

 

John stands young and steady at the altar, his tux fitted perfectly around every curve and crevice, making his legs look long and lean, emphasizing his broad shoulders and sturdy chest.

 

Nervous blue eyes dark as an arctic sea glance around at the people in the pews. Mary stops next to him and stares directly at the priest.

 

John says, “I do,” faintly, his voice not quite coming out properly.

 

Mary says, “I do,” with a harsh bite to the consonants as if she were barking out orders to her staff.

 

They float down the aisle together to a stiff reception with exquisite cake and rehearsed smiles.

 

-

 

John lay in bed, staring out the window into the cloudy night sky. The moon shines through every now and then, illuminating the large bedroom and its single occupant.

 

The air is still and quiet. John wishes to open the windows and let the London air drift in with the laughing and chatter of families and friends winding down and venturing out. This night is just like all the others. Seven-hundred-and-thirty other nights just like this one. Cold and alone, unable to sleep, unable to concentrate on anything besides his lifeless marriage to a woman he didn’t love and didn’t love him back.

 

Some say he deserved it. That he only married her for the money and she only married him because she thought her time was running out. They may have been right once upon a time.

 

-

 

“John,” the woman croaked, lying in the hospital bed. Her navy blue eyes stared up at him through the dark hollows of her sockets. She raised a bony, grey hand to stroke the man’s plump cheek. She smiled her thin-lipped smile at him. The same thin-lipped smile both of her children had inherited. John had seen that smile every day of his life. He knew it well enough to tell it was a fraud.

 

“Please, Mum,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He had gotten the bill in the mail that morning. He had fallen to his knees and cried for the first time since his mother was taken in the ambulance a year before.

 

“Don’t do it, Johnny,” the woman said, fresh tears staking their claim on her dry, wrinkled face. A year ago she was radiant with sandy blonde curls and flushed, full cheeks that mirrored John’s own. Her glow had been sucked from her with every prick of a needle, every consultation, and every doctor waltzing in and out of her life.

 

John stared at his mother hard. He leaned in and kissed her forehead softly. He pulled away as he fought back the sobs fighting to claw through his throat and out of his mouth.

 

“I love you, Mum,” he said before patting her hand and letting go. He looked at her once more before leaving the hospital room.

 

-

 

“Your mother is sick,” Mary said. John jerked his head in a facsimile of a nod. She stared at him. He stared back.

 

“You’re looking for a husband,” he said, a blush rising to his cheeks. She winced.

 

“You’re nearly half my age,” she said, looking him up and down. He glanced down at his hands.

 

“You want children,” he said to the table.

 

“You’re twenty-two years old,” she scoffed. Her eyes tracked his body as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

 

“And you’re forty,” he mumbled, tugging at his collar.

 

Her lips curved up and her eyes sharpened. She reached a perfectly manicured hand over and grasped his face. He looked into her eyes as she catalogued his expression. Large, dark eyes wide and scared. Plump cheeks flushed against the medium tone of his well-structured face. She ran a finger over his lips. Wide mouth, pouty lips, straight, white teeth. Upturned nose, light freckles covering the center of his face.

 

“You’ll do,” she said simply, letting go of his face to grab her handbag. He stared at her, flabbergasted.

 

“I’ll _do_ ,” he asked, his face scrunching up in confusion and anger. She smirked and looked down at him, adjusting the fur coat around her shoulders.

 

“Yes. You’ll do just fine,” she smiled. It was more of a baring of teeth than anything else.

 

John nodded dumbly and she left the café in a swirl of Chanel.

-

 

It was mid-morning on a Sunday and John was making tea while Mary was sitting on the sofa, shopping online for the nursery. The curtains were open, letting fresh sunlight filter through the muggy morning air. The large flat smelled of expensive tea and potpourri. The phone rang in the hallway.

 

Mary got up and nearly jogged to answer it. John was pulling out the tea bags when she picked up the phone. He heard soft murmuring and then silence. A cough. More silence. A click. Soft footsteps. Silence. 

 

Mary stood in the doorway, staring at the floor.

 

“Who was that?” John asked. Concern laced his falsely cheerful tone.

 

“Dr. Stevenson,” she replied. John dropped a tea bag on his slipper-clad foot.

 

“The results…?” he trailed off. She looked up at him. Her eyes were steel and ice. He stepped back into the counter. She turned and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

 

John stood there, stunned and slightly relieved.

 

Mary spent the next day throwing away paint chips and crib catalogs.

 

-

 

There weren’t many people, but that was to be expected. John sat alone in the front pew. Mary had work and Harry wouldn’t come. He was dressed in his best suit. The choir sang and the priest spoke of peace and better places. When it was over, John placed a single rose on the casket before walking out of the church.

 

-

 

John sits in front of the window, a medical journal on his lap. He had finished his schooling a year before, but he still liked to keep up on the world of medicine. He had applied to six hospitals when he graduated. No one got back to him.

 

Mary sat on the couch at the other end of the flat sipping her tea and watching the television. Rain drizzled down the windows and cars rushed by on the street below. The pavement was a sea of umbrellas and newspapers held over heads.

 

John looked down into his mug and cried. 


End file.
